Page 151 of Penny For Your Thoughts
A burning ember ignited in my chest. Fear turned to rage. The bear awoke. “Mine,” I growled.
Tallus chuckled. “Always, D.”
We hung up, and a flutter of unease made my legs wobble when I stood. I didn’t feel good about sending Tallus off to confront Lukyan alone. Despite my protest, despite all the arguments that were still one hundred percent valid, I located the number for the cop working Elwood’s case and placed a call.
We’d crossed far too many ethical lines in the past few days. If we weren’t careful, we’d end up warming a cell with Lukyan, but I didn’t have a choice. Tallus might be a fearless firecracker, but he was too precious to risk. At least the police would ensure he didn’t get hurt. His safety was more important than an arrest.
Darcy paled as I shared enough detail with the officer to ensure they sent a unit to the marina. I traced a vague line from the punk kid who’d posed as Elwood’s grandson to a drug house to Lukyan. I gave enough backstory about his investments and tax return information to painthim in a suspicious light. I exaggerated and reshaped our discoveries to fit a legitimate—and legal—picture that would hopefully pique their curiosity and make them want to take a deeper look into Lukyan.
“You told them about me,” Darcy said when I hung up.
“I didn’t name you, and you won’t be their focus. You’re a minor player. Trust me.”
Tallus had backup on the way. That was the best I could do.
“Come on. We’ve gotta run.” I raced to find the Jeep keys and scrambled to get my boots on.
Echo barked and ran to the door. She nudged her leash expectantly.
“Not now, girl. Daddy has to do this without you. It might get chaotic, and I don’t want you in the middle of it.”
She whined, but I stood my ground.
“Where are we going?” Darcy asked as I locked the door.
“To break Aaron Daily’s fingers.”
33
Tallus
Ididn’t know a thing about boats or boat storage or marinas, but when I arrived at the address Diem had given me, I was confronted with one of the biggest steel-barn-looking buildings I’d ever seen in my life. The massive garage-style door on the front was bigger than a typical house.
The door was rolled up, displaying endless rows of boats all tightly shrink-wrapped in plastic-looking covers within. The boats were shelved on either side of the room on gigantic metal racks that climbed to the ceiling. It was like a parking garage for boats.
My brain stuttered. A million questions I’d never considered in my twenty-nine years of life surfaced at once.
Whatever I’d envisioned when it came to Lukyan making aquick escapevia his boat wasn’t happening. I had severely underestimated what the process of launching a boat entailed. We lived in southern Ontario. Lake Ontario may not fully freeze in the winter due to itsdepth and size, but the shoreline and bays did. It meant boat owners needed to store their expensive toys during the colder months. I assumed not doing so would compromise the boat’s integrity. It meant removing the boat from the water and winterizing it.
Dry storage. It made sense now.
Until this moment, I didn’t know whatwinterizingentailed. I still didn’t. Not really, but it was clear in an instant that taking a boat out of dry storage and getting it into the water was not something that happened in five minutes, nor did it seem that mid-March was when it typically occurred—if the sheer number of boats in slots told me anything. It made sense. We often experienced snow and sub-zero temperatures in March. Hell, April was a crapshoot when it came to the weather.
The enormous metalrack—for lack of a better word—of boats was mostly full. Inside the oversized storage shed, a guy operated a crane-like machine while two others in hard hats gathered around one of the shrink-wrapped boats, directing him.
Was it Lukyan’s?
I checked the time. Shortly past twelve. If it was Lukyan’s boat, then where was the man himself? I would have expected him to oversee the process.
I pulled the Jetta around, maneuvering the vast gravel lot between the massive storage shed and the water. A line of parked cars occupied a spot near a small building that I suspected was some sort of marina administration. I slotted into an available place between a Focus and a Tundra as my phone rang.
“Christ, D,” I muttered, scrambling for the device in the cupholder.
It wasn’t Diem. My cousin’s name flashed on the screen.
“This is a bad time,” I said, connecting the call.
“Wrong. It’s the most wonderful time. Matias Alejandro Ruiz arrived twenty minutes ago. Nine pounds and six ounces. Happy, healthy, and huge. Tia did amazing. The girls are over the moon.”
